Viva Las Vegas

Las Vegas

I KNEW IT WAS TIME TO GET OUT of the house when, while cleaning up pine needles from the tree, I accidentally vacuumed up the three wise men and a small lamb from a ceramic nativity scene into the same Shop-Vac that I’d used to drain the water from the tree stand moments before.

Oops, gotta run.

So off to Las Vegas, this city of boundless ambition and unrivaled taste.

Vegas is always the perfect cure for the post-holiday blues. Sure enough, the two-day trip with a buddy goes very well. There are accusations but never any arrests. We find the locals to be extremely friendly, particularly the women folk late at night.

These women, they act like they know you from way back even when they don’t. It’s all very sweet. I’m thinking to myself, “Nice welcome wagon they have here,” when my buddy Dan explains that they might be “professionals.”

“So am I!” I shout.

More and more, I resemble Mork from Ork.

First, a little bit about Vegas. To me, Vegas seems to be made of plastic playground equipment -- lots of faux wood bolted to phony boulders. Vast parts of town are still tiki Polynesian, except the newer hotels, where granite and marble now rule.

Indeed, the newer Vegas hotels may feature more stonework than all the cemeteries in America combined. Don’t take that as any sort of omen. Take it as a sign of Vegas’ majesty. Like Rome or Florence.

Second, Vegas is now our nation’s melting pot, where prom queens from Toledo mingle with porn queens from Van Nuys. Once, the nation’s motto was “Give me your tired, your poor. . . . “ Now it’s “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.” But Las Vegas is more than America’s melting pot. It’s more like a crock pot, set on high.

During our visit, the geeky Consumer Electronics Show is in full swing alongside a steamy adult video convention. In the hallways of the Sands, I think I spot a woman carrying two white poodles, which turn out to be her very own bare breasts. As pets go, you can’t beat boobs. Yes, I averted my eyes. No, I didn’t try to pet them.

And that whole “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas” thing -- forget about it. I’m going to tell you everything, down to the seamiest detail.

For instance, lately I’ve become the kind of guy who can’t go to a salad bar without getting my shirt cuff in the thousand island dressing. That is to say, I’ve become a bit of a bumbler, if you can believe that.

I don’t know the cause. Perhaps it is a tiny sign of mortality and approaching death. Or maybe it’s my preoccupation with the college football bowl season, which turned out to be such a dud.

Point is, in Vegas I stumble around like a hayseed from El Paso trying to find a $5 blackjack table at the Bellagio. What a dolt.Thank God for my pal’s endless support. Dan tags along like a good sport while I get lost going to the Luxor or spill Coke all over the carpet at the Venetian. Vegas for me is always a comedy skit of missteps, and I’ve learned to roll with them, to find a certain cool amusement in the entire process. I urge you to do the same. For, in a city so devoted to fun and decadence, I find very few actual smiles.

Except, of course, from those “professionals.” Seriously, did Gomorrah have this many hookers? They see me and must think, “Oh, look, there’s a leprechaun convention in town. Easy money, leprechauns. I think I’ll stick that little one on my dashboard.”

Sorry, Goldilocks. It’s just me, skipping back to the hotel at 1 a.m., contented with the 40 bucks I just pocketed at the blackjack table at Imperial Palace, a casino that appears not to have been updated since Bugsy Siegel’s funeral.

Am I vulnerable to these professionals? Not at all. Though I wouldn’t mind someone to rub the calf muscle I torqued while playing touch football recently. Or someone to laugh at all my old stories. Or someone to listen to my theories on the electoral college, which really ought to have a football team and a fight song.

What would such services be worth, 100 bucks? Maybe a grand?

Turns out all that these women are offering is sex, and I can get that for nearly free from Mrs. Leprechaun back home.

Speaking of whom, when I return from Vegas, I am so used to tipping every single soul -- the waitresses, the bell captains, the dealers -- that I tip my wife and kids five bucks every time they pass me on the couch. My wife merely slips the bills in her blouse and keeps walking.

But I know exactly what she’s thinking: “Easy money, leprechauns.”

Easy, indeed.

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Chris Erskine can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes.com. For more columns, see latimes.com/erskine.